The Season Long Awaited (Once Upon A December #2)

Chapter 1 New Years Eve 2025

Pretty Boy (feat. Lil Yachty)

I worked hard to buy it, just to have it ruined by Mr. Wasn’t-Paying-Attention.

“It’s not fine. It isn’t. I’m sorry. Here, let's go to the bathroom real quick.” He takes my hand and drags me up from the stool before I can process what’s actually happening. He walks incredibly fast for someone wearing a sexy as fuck fitted tux.

And he’s leading me to the bathroom . . . I can’t just go to the bathroom with a complete stranger. This is how people get murdered.

“Stop!” I shout, louder than intended. He does, immediately. He lets go of my wrist and turns to face me. Concern and horror wash all over his face.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. What was I thinking, dragging you like this?”

I cock my head to the side and eye him up and down. He’s so good looking, oh my God. Tall, with high cheekbones and pretty dark eyes framed by slutty little glasses. The scruff around his jaw makes him look a little ragged, but the smile he’s flashing me is sharp. Oh, the smile. He’s smiling at me.

“What?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You were staring.”

“Oh, it must be my brain short-circuiting after having an ice cold drink spilled down my back.”

He flinches. “I deserve that. May I please take you to the bathroom so we can dry your back? I would hate for a pretty dress like that to be ruined because it got wet.” I’ll give it to him, the man has game.

“What’s your name?” I ponder the question, tasting it on my lips. Do I want to know, or am I just being difficult? My whole life, I’ve been called difficult, so it doesn’t surprise me that’s where my brain goes first.

“What?”

“If I’m stepping out of this very public place where I can scream if you try to hurt me and into a bathroom with you, I’d like to at least know your name.”

“Asher.” His reply is clipped, almost as if he’s trying it out in his mouth. Either that’s a fake name, or he’s extremely shy. He might be the latter, but something tells me it might be the first.

”You don’t look like an Asher.” My hands land on my hips, but I hiss at the feel of the wet fabric.

”I’m sorry. Come on, let me fix it.” His callused hands hold mine, and my brain goes instantly to the gutter. His hands are strong; judging by the state of them, he works with them. And I like it—a lot.

In quick strides, we step out of the ballroom, through a chandelier lit back hall, and into a family-sized bathroom with a door he locks behind him. The lights are on, triggered by movement when we step inside, and here, under them, I’m finally able to get a good look at him.

His suit is different shades of coffee, as if he mix-and-matched two to make them fit, just like I do with my bathing suits.

Big ass, thick thighs, and small boobs will do that to a girl.

He’s wearing glasses, and while most women might not find that alluring, I do. He’s giving me smart and sexy vibes.

Asher clears his throat, tilting his head to the side and giving me a once over. So I just got caught shamelessly ogling him.

Again.

Cool, cool.

“Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something about it?” I ask, and when his mahogany eyes open wide, I shake my head. “Get your head out of the gutter. That’s not what I mean.” So I guess this is a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do situation now. Got it.

“Come.” His voice is clipped, not apologetic like it was before. Either he was pretending back there, or he’s uncomfortable now.

Which one is it, Asher? Are you sweet and kind and a little bit of a clutz, or are you an asshole who just wanted to get me into the bathroom alone?

I step forward, following his command until he leads me under the silver dryer on the wall.

“What do you expect me to do? Get on my knees under that?”

“Um, that was my plan, yes, but if that’s too uncomfortable, you can always take it off.” There is zero hesitation in his voice but no flirtation either. His voice is not laced with excitement and or sultriness like I would expect from a man who’s trying to get into my pants.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” I sass.

“Listen.” He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If I was trying to get laid tonight, throwing a drink on a beautiful girl’s dress wasn’t the way to do it. So trust me when I say, I don’t want to be here just as much as you don’t. I’m trying, but I need you to meet me halfway.”

“Woman."

“What?” he asks, stumped.

“I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. Turn around, and I’ll give you the dress.”

“What?”

“Am I not speaking English?” He flinches.

This—this is what people mean when they categorize me as mean. It’s the way I say things, not just what I say. I thought this man was hard to read, but he’s not, because that bothered him. He’s either completely unfazed by this whole thing, or he’s just showing me what he wants me to see.

Except that might have been triggering, because his jaw grows tight.

He lets out a sigh. “You know what? I don’t need to do this. It was an accident. I was trying to help. You clearly are not happy for whatever reason, but I don’t deserve for you to be condescending about it.”

I obviously hurt his feelings, but what’s done is done. Nothing I can do about it now, but it doesn’t hurt to try to fix it. “I don’t have a bra.”

“At the risk of you snapping at me again, what?” he asks with effortless charm.

Oh, I’m in trouble if I’m finding this man endearing after he just asked the same question a bazillion times.

“Do you know any other question words? Or maybe how to expand on it?” I smile so he knows I’m teasing, but he doesn’t react.

Damn, Hailey, you’re losing your touch.

“That was a joke.”

As serious as he can be, he says, “It wasn’t funny.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

I wait for him to say something or to leave, but he doesn’t do either.

“I asked you to turn around so I could take my dress off and give it to you because I’m not wearing a bra. So go ahead.” I twirl my finger around in the air. He chuckles, his hand raking over his mouth and stubble, hiding a soft smile.

Okay then; we’re starting to relax. That’s a good sign.

He still doesn’t turn, though he slowly touches the lapel of his cocoa jacket and slides it off the breadth of his shoulders.

So I was right—he’s definitely broader at the top than the bottom.

His white shirt is carefully tucked in, showing his narrow waist and the khaki pants framing what seem like strong legs.

So a gym fan, huh? Wouldn’t have thought that.

“Here.” He hands the jacket over, and at the raise of my eyebrow, he says, “So you can cover yourself up.”

As soon as the jacket is in my hand, he turns, standing tall, his legs shoulder width apart and his arms at the front, as if he’s standing at attention.

This man is an enigma, and I’m dying to figure him out, even if I just met him.

In no time, I’m out of my dress. That’s what you have to do when you’re single and live alone. Zippers and anything that requires another person become a nightmare. I slide his jacket on and breathe his scent in.

Damn.

He smells earthy and fresh but also like the ocean kissing my cheeks, like fire and wood after camping. It’s intoxicating, the way it’s invading all my senses. My lungs, my skin—it makes it all the way down to my toes.

Damn.

I walk to the dryer, and the loud woosh and warm air fill the space.

Asher turns around and shakes his head. “No, no. I’m going to do it. I messed it up.”

“I can do it. I have two very capable hands. See?” I open them, spreading my fingers over the fabric.

“So what’s the point of me coming in here if you were just going to do it by yourself?”

He’s so damn assertive, and I like it more than I should for someone I just met. This is the longest I’ve been in the presence of another man who’s not a patient, my dad, my brothers, or Alex, my best friend’s husband, in a long time.

So maybe I’m just lonely or horny. Or both. Which would explain why I feel jittery under his gaze.

“You dragged me in here, not the other way around.”